


Fifty Stars

by plzdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Letters, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:08:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6713608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plzdean/pseuds/plzdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean recounts his experience of being in the Army through a series of letters and diary entries. He tells about meeting Castiel, a fellow solider, and the experiences they shared together in Iraq, until one day an IED bomb completely tears his world a part.</p><p>(disclaimer: i completely disagree with the concept of war, this fic was entirely inspired by a song)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letter One

Dear Sammy,

Feels weird knowing I’m going to be so far from you for so long. I don’t think there’s been a moment since you were born that we’ve been separated for more than a weekend. Well, unless you want to count that camping trip I went on with the scouts when I was ten. Didn’t end well. We don’t need to remember that again.

But you wouldn't want to hear about that shit - you've heard it all a thousand times before, I'm sure. You’d want to hear about the crazy shit that goes down in this continent across the other side of the world, where men will put a bullet through my brain simply for the uniform I am wearing. Seems like an odd concept doesn’t it? Well, it does, until you realise my job here is to do exactly the same. And the truth is, I’d have a better answer for you about what it’s like out here if I’d allow myself a moment to just _think_ about it all. But I can’t. My mind is constantly stuck between two places; the gun in my hand, and the thoughts of back home. I’ve barely had a moment to consider the environment I’m in or allow myself a moment to rationalise the politics of what I’m doing. Maybe it’s better I skip the latter…

I know you wouldn’t agree with it. And neither do I, if I’m being honest.

But things back home got too much – I was afraid of what would happen to me if I’d stayed. Even more so, to Benny. I didn’t want to have to be there stuck fighting with dad just to allow Benny to step through the door of our house. But now I’m done with it all – I’m done with fighting with myself when I could be fighting for something that matters, you know?

Don’t argue with me on that. I can imagine your response as you’re reading this. _Your happiness does matter, Dean. Your happiness matters more than what dad thinks of you, of course it does._

Well, you’re not me. I find it easier to push it all away from me than I do to sit down and allow time for everything to sort itself out. From the way things were going, it didn’t look like dad was going to come around any time soon, anyway. He threatened to kill Benny. And if he’d done that I’d have killed him too. I’m not sure I’d have been able to live with myself if I’d done that, Sammy.

I know this whole enlisting thing came as a shock to everybody. Dad threw a bottle of whiskey right at me when I told him. And I know he was mad, because it was a full bottle and that shit ain’t cheap. Bobby cried. That’s right, Robert Singer, who shows next no emotion other than irritation, actually cried in front of me. I suppose I should take it as an accomplishment. Or maybe I should have taken it as a warning that this time I’d actually crossed the line.

“You’re eighteen, boy. Gotta whole life ahead of you. What in God’s name can the army give you that your family can’t?”

Oh, I don’t know, Bobby. How about a sense of freedom? Distance from the toxic bastard that is my father? A sense of belonging?

Funny thing is, I’ve thought of a thousand different answers to that question ever since he asked it. Whole twenty-two hours on a plane, and I’d imagined that scene with a million different outcomes.

But in the exact moment? I didn’t say a word. I just walked out of the house with my backpack and jumped on that coach to Texas. I don’t regret it, and that makes me feel bad. Should I?

Well, I guess there is one thing I do regret. I regret not telling Benny. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Three months of basic training I managed to hide from him, three months of planning the conversation I knew we’d have to have. And in the end, I couldn’t bare the thought of looking him in the eye and telling him there was a seat for me on a plane to Iraq twenty-one weeks away. Instead I blocked his number, deleted my Facebook account, and fucking disappeared off the face of the Earth.

I’m a fucking ---- I can’t even think of a word with enough gravity to accurately describe how much I hate myself knowing what I’ve done to him. I just didn’t want him to think I was doing it to get away from him. Although, something inside of me thinks that maybe I was. Something inside of me blames him for the fact dad hates me. Something inside of me is completely incapable of holding myself accountable for anything. That sounds more like it.

Whatever. That shit is in the past now. I’ve got a job to and I’m gonna goddamn do it because there is nothing left for me in this world, and I’ve finally found something I’m willing do die for. I may have only been here for a couple of days, but I don’t regret it just yet.

Gotta see the world, Sammy.

Later,

Dean.


	2. Letter Two

Hey, Sam,

You want to hear about war? I’ll tell you about it.

My bunkmate was with a squadron driving to get supplies when they were ambushed not too far from the base.

They were all killed. A brother, a friend, a husband, gone in moment as a bullet passed through his brain. I only knew him in passing; he used to call me ‘kid’ and would let me eat the chocolate his wife sent him from home so it wouldn’t go to waste. Yet I still feel empty at the thought of him gone, and I wasn’t even too sure of his first name.

A man died needlessly for a freedom that we already had; a daughter will grow up without a father because spilt oil is worth more than spilt blood. I’m afraid it will be me who bleeds out into the sand next, Sam. And if it is – I’m sorry.

War is hell. Nobody dies like a hero out here. Perhaps I should have listened to Bobby – I should have stayed home, figured everything out.

I threw up last night, you know. There were no snores from the bunk above me to lull me into the pained sleep I was growing used to. So I was thinking about Benny – I was thinking about the possibility of me dying and him never knowing about it. Ha. Guess there’s some shit even _I_ can’t stomach.

It’s been two weeks. I don’t want to get used to the thoughts of men around me dying. I miss you. I even miss dad, if you can believe it.

Love Dean.


	3. Letter 3

Hey Sam,

Bed above me didn’t stay empty for long; in fact, it only took two nights before another unfortunate soul was shipped out here to fill it. The poor guy keeps having night terrors and he hasn’t even seen half the shit anyone else has yet. He seems nice - maybe a little sensitive - but nice. He’s not much older than me, 24 at most, and he’s easy to talk to.

I didn’t get a chance to speak to my old bunk mate that often, but with this new guy I see him _everywhere_. He doesn’t say much, just smiles. It’s nice to see a smile, a genuine smile, untainted. A lot of the guys out here, they laugh and joke but they’re not really happy. I mean, why would you be? Thousands of miles from home, based near a desert town filled with men willing to kill you in the name of politics – if it can even be called that anymore.

I suppose that will change after a couple of weeks.

Aside from that, not much has changed. I still throw up sometimes at night, and at this point I’m not even sure if it’s because I’m thinking about Benny. I mean, I have been thinking about Benny a lot, but I don’t feel sad about it anymore. Instead I feel angry at him for not giving me a good enough reason to stay.

My bunk mate doesn’t ask questions, and I’m glad for that, although I don’t ask him about his shit either. In fact, I’ve found that nobody out here really asks about the stuff you’ve seen or the things you’ve done. We talk about the things we miss but we don’t dwell on it – what use would that be? Sometimes we talk about the first things we’ll do when we get home, but a part from that, it’s mainly football teams and gossip (and there’s a lot of gossip out here, trust me).

What else? Well, food sucks. The older guys keep trying to get me to smoke. A part from that? Same old. Patrolling, cleaning and maintaining trucks is all my life has become, to be honest. I’d say it sucks being one of the youngest and relatively new, but at least the element of danger is significantly reduced with a mop in your hand.

Anyway, gotta rush. I’m on maintenance duty again and I’m running late.

~~Love,~~

~~Dean.~~

 

I guess the letter doesn't end there. My bunk mate I mentioned? His name is Castiel. He’s from Boston. He likes his coffee black and he has a brother called Gabriel. We were stuck cleaning trucks together and, dude, I haven’t smiled so much since I got here than I just did for the past six hours. I don’t know how it took so long to get to know him; I mean, he’s been sleeping above me for the past week, and we barely exchanged enough words to consider it a conversation. Well, we’ve spoken now. And he’s great. Turns out his brother is actually out here too – he’s one of the Captains, although I’ve only seen him a handful of times. A busy man, apparently.

He’s off running errands now, and I really wish you could meet him. It’s impossible, I know. But you’d love him. I know you would. He’s the sort of guy that makes speaking to him feel so easy. It’s nice to have found someone out here like that – a lot of the older guys can be horribly standoffish.

I suppose I should end this letter now or it will be too heavy to post (I’m running out of stamps, shit).

I’ll write to you again when I next get the chance, not that you’re waiting to hear from me or anything.

See you,

Dean


End file.
